


The Law of Attraction

by SunsetEyes



Category: The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Awkwardness, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Money, Reunions, Slow Build, Slow Romance, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-05-21 01:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14905517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunsetEyes/pseuds/SunsetEyes
Summary: Savannah “Anne” Warwick and Richard York are the kids of two of the most powerful attorneys in the world. Growing up in New York, the two knew they were born great, although one wasn't entirely sure they deserved it—or wanted it. They are separated when the Yorks abruptly move back to London. 13 years later, they're virtually strangers to each other, but their worlds are forced to collide under circumstances neither are completely in favor with. Can they resolve the past or will they get burned by it instead?





	1. Like history didn't happen

**Author's Note:**

> HELLOOOO sooo you should know a few things before proceeding with this (and if you do, thanks for reading it!!!)  
> I changed the names of the TWQ characters because it’s easy to get confused with them since a lot of them have the same names!!!  
> Here are the name changes:  
> Neville --> Warwick  
> Richard Neville --> Rickard Warwick (got that from Game of Thrones)  
> Anne Neville --> Savannah "Anne" Warwick (just cause I like the name Savannah)  
> Anne de Beauchamp --> Dianne Warwick  
> Isabel Neville --> Isaac Warwick (cause I like the brother-sister dynamic hehe)  
> Richard Plantaganet, Duke of York --> Richmond York  
> Edward Plantaganet, Prince of Wales --> Ed Lancaster  
> Henry VI --> Henry Lancaster  
> Margaret of Anjou --> Margaret Lancaster  
> Yeah that's basically it!!!! ヽ(・∀・)ﾉ

“Savannah Warwick, get down here!” Dianne Warwick screams from the bottom of their penthouse atop 1136 Fifth Avenue, which stands sublimely in front of Central Park. Regal, impeccably dressed, looking 35 even when she’s 55, and tongue-clucking in disapproval at her family’s pace. You know Dianne’s pissed when she calls you by your whole name. How is that she’s the fast one around here?

“5 minutes!” Anne yells from her room. The problem is, another “5 minutes!” came from the gym. It’s Anne’s 57-year-old father, Rickard Warwick, trying to squeeze in the workout he never has time for at the wrong time. They’re about to embark on their annual Hamptons weekend—frankly the only time in the year apart from Christmas and New Year when 4/4 of the Warwicks are in attendance. The other problem is Anne’s 29-year-old brother Isaac is currently nowhere to be found. The control freak in Dianne was about to blow a fuse, when Anne pops out of her room and walks down their staircase, into their sky-lit hallway. Behind her is Alicia, their lovable, tarot card-carrying maid, bearing Anne’s baggage fit for a European excursion. Dianne could care less about the amount of baggage her daughter is bringing. She could only blame herself for this, truthfully.

 

Anne at 22 years old is the splitting image of Dianne at her prime—petite, heart-shaped face, and piercing blue eyes—save for the dirty blonde beachy waves and bosoms she definitely didn’t pass onto her daughter. She sized up her daughter’s outfit—a little blue, white-striped crop top and drop-waist skirt number from Calvin Klein, paired with a Juicy Couture straw tote, sleek cream Botkier slides, and white Chanel sunglasses. It’s one of the outfits that make Dianne wish she still had a 20-something’s body, but at least she looked great in her high-low hem floral Gucci maxi dress.

“And you say I underestimate the time, mother,” Anne leans in to give her mother a peck on the cheek.  

“Oh, it just so happens that you’re not the only one who wasn’t prepared for this trip, dear.”

“Dad still grumbling about having to go?” Anne purred as her 2-year-old corgi Atlas rushed to her side and sniffed her. Anne liked to call Atlas her baby; she never traveled without him. Even at their apartment in Cambridge, Massachusetts, Atlas had his own dog bed, just as Isaac’s golden retriever Atticus did. Sometimes, he’d nuzzle himself beside Anne and sleep next to her, like a real-life teddy bear. As usual, Atlas and Atticus were coming along to Long Island.

“10 years of mandatory vacation time, you’d think he’d have gotten used to it by now.”

“What was it he used to say?” Anne asked while she rubbed her corgi’s belly before hugging the golden retriever which had just licked her face and snuggled into her.

“I could take a vacation when I’m dead!” Rickard hollers as he descends the staircase in his navy blue Ralph Lauren Big Pony Polo, contrasting white shorts, large Rolex watch, and an expression that screams “kill me now.” “Chest pain with ischemia. Happens to you once in your life, and those damn doctors force vacation on you. Bah!”

Rickard was a decidedly intimidating man. Had he not chosen to become a high-powered attorney, he’d have become future president—or cautionary tale. Although perhaps he was always the latter. Tall, razor-sharp, constant display of “don’t fuck with me” attitude on his face, and always 100 steps ahead of everyone. There’s no curve ball you could throw at Rickard that he won’t see coming a mile away.

Rickard pets Atlas and Atticus, then plants a kiss on his wife’s displeased face. With each passing year, this trip has become more laborious. But if there’s one place to be for New Yorkers who don’t want to leave the city, it’s the Hamptons. And right now, Dianne wants to get out of here, and they all know it. Rickard might be the Managing Partner of York & Warwick, but within the marriage and family, Dianne is the Head Bitch in Charge; she’s stamped her authority on the whole family.

“Language, daddy…” Anne hummed as she lifted herself up to kiss her father’s forehead. “May I remind you about our agreement as per profanity?”

“Anne, please. We’ve been saying ‘vacation’ this whole time, and I haven’t charged you a dollar.”

Meh. It’s not like her 12-year-old swear jar was ever going to get filled.

The three get into the elevator with Alicia to meet Milton, their ever reliable, proper British butler, and Jay, Rickard’s trusted chauffeur. All have been around even before Anne was born and were treated like family.

Midway down the ride, Rickard breaks the silence. “God damn it, where is your brother?” He says like he’s just remembered that he has a son.

“Isaac says he’ll meet us in the limo,” Anne says, not even looking up from her phone.  

The wait for Isaac is a good 5 minutes before Anne spots him sprinting across Fifth Avenue, hair disheveled and still in yesterday’s oxfords and Tom Ford suit, minus the jacket and necktie. Milton, who has been alerted in advance about Isaac’s expected late arrival, had already packed his luggage for him. Isaac gives the butler a tight hug, and for a second, Milton breaks his refined butler demeanor. The two then enter the limousine, with Milton taking the passenger’s seat beside Jay, while Isaac kisses both his parents and pets his golden retriever before taking the seat of shame.

“Well, it’s about time!” Rickard shouts. “Go time, Jay!”

“Right, sir!” Jay rings back.

The tension in the limo is thick as they cruise down E 94th Street. Everyone’s just waiting for Isaac to speak. Finally, he apologizes. “Sorry, mom, dad. Just got a bit carried away with the boys. It was payday, after all, and, you know—”

“You made junior partner yesterday, making you the youngest person ever to do that in firm history. That’s even younger than me, back when we were Lancaster & Lancaster.”

Isaac and Anne give each other a look. Oh, boy. Here comes The Speech.

“And we’re very proud of you, honey,” Dianne says in a tone that’s trying too hard to be sympathetic.

“But I didn’t make youngest senior partner or get my name up on that wall—in New York and London—by partying it up with my fellow associates, disappearing overnight, and being unreachable!”

 _No, you just brought in the firm's most significant clients and staged the most unforeseen, unprecedented coup that ousted two legal giants_ , Anne (and probably Isaac) thought.

“God damn it, Isaac! You’re 30 years old! Quit acting like you’re still at Stuyvesant!”

Isaac could easily stare any person down—but not Rickard. He was more than his father; he was his boss. No one dares face Rickard at this moment. Anne covertly peers at her brother, who directed his face to his feet. She texts him: _This wouldn’t happen if it weren’t Hamptons day. We’re all super proud of you!!!_

“You’re right, dad. I’m sorry for worrying you all. I should have been more responsible,” Isaac replies. He sounds so genuine that Anne almost laughs.

“It’s alright, Isaac. At least he’s here, right, Rick?” Dianne is calm and upbeat as she smoothes her husband’s polo in an attempt to appease him. It takes Rickard five seconds before he nods. All is well again!

Until:

“Speaking of Lancaster, how is their little screwup, Anne?” Rickard asks with considerable distaste.

“Honey, just because he didn’t make it to Harvard Law doesn’t mean he’s a screwup,” Dianne hums, as she handed her husband his negroni.

“And it’s a damn good thing! If that shithead got into Harvard or Cambridge, I guarantee you he’ll try to snake his way into the firm. And that is never going to happen.”

“I’ll have you know NYU Law ranks 6th in the world,” Anne retorts to make it seem as if she likes the guy. She’s only defending NYU because that’s where her best friend Veronica was going.

Isaac and Rickard laugh more than they should have. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Isaac scoffs, to which his dad nods profusely. All is most definitely well again between father and son.

“Can you expect more from the son of a couple who were stupid enough to let me notice their grubby hands were stealing my money?”

“And trying to frame it all on poor Richmond York—the veracious man. May his soul rest in peace,” Dianne looks up and makes the sign of the cross. The family let out a unified “Amen.”

Now, you might be wondering: why the hell would Rickard and Dianne allow their prized possession—their only daughter, their baby girl—date a man they repulsed?

“Ah, if Richmond were only here today…” Rickard said wistfully. “He could be wielding the bat with me every time we come swinging when those Lancasters try to worm their way back into my firm or poach our clients!” Rickard snickers. That was a 360° turn, though. Her dad was truly a master of his emotions. “Thanks for tipping us off that last one, baby.” Rickard winks at his daughter.

“Got your back, always, dad.” Anne winks back, but can’t stop the sick twisting she feels in her gut. Deviating from all expectations—to either become a lawyer or the Princess Diana of the Upper East Side—and enrolling at Harvard Medical School instead was not enough. A pawn at the hands of her father, that’s what she thinks and is. It’s just too hard to say no to someone you love so much. Anyway, she could be dating worse. The Lancasters were still rich. Ed was planning to take her to the South of France to make the most of their summer before med and law school. She worried that the 208 miles between them might strain their relationship, but if it did, that wouldn’t be the worst thing. Anne was good at faking it with Ed—from euphoria each time they’d meet to ecstasy whenever she’d blow him, or he’d finger her. She put her foot down at receiving oral sex. She couldn’t help but gag in her mouth at the thought of someone sticking their tongue in her. Gross.

“Oh, dear. Speaking of the Yorks, it looks like they’re already there,” Dianne looked at her iPhone with a wrinkled forehead.  

Anne almost spat out her Moët Rosé Imperial. “What do you mean ‘there’?”

“Didn’t we tell you? York & Warwick is turning 20 this year—”

“Yes, yes, we know that. And?” Anne cuts her mother off, too impatient for tiny details.

“Don’t interrupt your mother, young lady,” Rickard interjects. Isaac smirks at the rare moments Rickard puts Anne to her place.

“And the Yorks are here for the celebration, along with the other senior partners from the London headquarters. And they’ll be joining us at Long Island for the weekend.”

“But it’s just the partners, right?” Anne thought the question was stupid, too. Sure, their Hamptons residence was enormous, but 30+ partners couldn’t possibly fit.

“No, no. It’s only the Yorks,” Dianne stirred her gin and Dubonnet with a slice of lemon.

“You mean, the whole lot? They’ve miraculously found the time to visit the States?”

“Yes, honey. Now, why are you so ruffled about this? They’re just the Yorks. You grew up with Richard.”

“That’s exactly why, mom. I thought that was obvious from when she almost choked on her rosé,” Isaac teased.

“Still harboring a crush on the boy, are we, Annie?” Rickard asked, brazenly, as he stroked the corgi that was sound asleep on his lap.

“Dad, I never had one to begin with,” Anne retorted, although the flush of her cheeks betrayed her.

“Oh, I don’t think we can call Richard a boy anymore, dear,” Dianne added. “He’s Anne’s age!”

“Yes, I know, but it’s so odd to call either of them adults. Anne, a woman, and Richard, a man,” Rickard said with pressed lips and furrowed brows.

“Dad, I’m turning 22, and I’m going to medical school.” _Hello?_

“Yes, but you’ll always be my baby girl.” _Just except when it comes to the Lancasters, right?_

“Hey, you guys remember Anne’s 4th birthday???” Isaac asked with a cheeky grin before he took a huge bite of his grilled cheese french toast.

“Oh, God.” Anne averted her eyes to whatever she could find outside the window.

“Right!” Dianne’s face lit up, and she snapped her fingers. “The Yorks were still living here back then. The theme was Knights and Ladies.”

“And, of course, our Annie was the only Princess,” Rickard thundered as if that was going to make Anne look back at them.

“Mhm! We even hired a man in a dragon costume!” Dianne recalled fondly.

“And when it was time for the knights to slay the dragon, dad asked Anne who was going to be her champion. Remember who she chose?” Isaac asked in between munching his baked parmesan truffle fries. He was loving this.

“Richard, naturally,” Rickard replied.

“Joke’s on you all, though,” Anne turned around. “The natural choice would have been Edward. He’s the one I fancied! Thanks for forcing him to go in a knight costume, even though he was already 16 years old. He looked every bit like one. God, he was hot.”

“Yeah, I thought you’d go for Edward, too. One of the kids were like, ‘why Richard??? He’s weird!’”

Anne looked at her brother disapprovingly. “Oh, come, on. I was 11! He had these bizarrely huge eyes and this dark, creepy, too-serious-to-be-a-4-year-old aura.” Isaac chuckled.

“Thanks for making it sound like I had a crush on a tarsier-vampire hybrid, Isaac,” Anne snatched a handful of fries as compensation.

“And you announced to everyone, ‘he’s weird, but so am I! We could be weirdos together!’” Anne rolled her eyes and blew a lock of hair away from her face, while the hearts of her entire family practically melted in front of her. At least her dad’s not in such a foul mood now.

“Richard, with his confidence restored, then plunged his sword into the dragon—whose belly was smartly made of foam—” Isaac gestured dramatically. It’s no surprise, though, that her parents would produce offspring with a flair for theatrics. “And vanquished the dragon! After, he climbed up the tower and saved the princess! And the crowd went wild! Raaaah!”

“Okay, that part, I remember clearly,” Rickard nodded.

“It was so cute!” Dianne remarked.

Anne still looked displeased. “You done, Shakespeare?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault that your birthday could have been a scene in the _Wonder Years_ if Kevin was younger,” he said while he fed Atticus a gourmet dog treat.

“Lighten up, Anne,” Dianne says. “I thought you’d be excited to see Richard after all these years!”

“I’m freaking out because I didn’t pack anything fit for having people over—regardless of who they are!” That was a blatant lie. Anne wouldn’t be caught dead in the Hamptons wearing just a crop top over some shorts.

“Didn’t bring enough bikinis?” Isaac joked, which earned him a smack in the arm from Anne.

To everyone’s surprise, Rickard agreed with Anne. “Anne, you're absolutely right. You’re showing too much skin with that outfit on! You can’t go out like that! Dianne! How could this get past you???”

“Dear, it must not be that bad if you just noticed now,” Dianne chuckled.

_Good old mom. Always my confidant and helping me get away with things like this._

“Oh, Anne!” Dianne’s face lit up. “Remember how you used to scream Richard’s name from the second floor when he’d come over??”

Anne grumbles. _Spoke too soon! Lord, make it stop!_

“We used to call them Bonnie and Clyde!” Dianne laughed.

“Wasn’t that a little twisted, though? Given that, I don’t know; they were thieves and murderers?!!?” Anne fired back.

“Not like you two knew that at the time,” Isaac ragged.

“Well,” Rickard cleared his throat.

_Finally, someone’s siding with me in this!_

“I think Anne’s reaction should be completely expected.” _Yes, dad! Exactly!_

“She’s got a boyfriend right now.”

_Maaaybe not._

“Richard’s in the past. Ed’s the present! It’s normal that she’d react this way, given how much she cares for her boyfriend! God, she even defended NYU Law, for crying out loud.”

“Thanks, dad,” Anne says too optimistically. She wants the talk about her pretend love life to be over.

Maybe she did have a crush on Richard—at one point. A tiny, teeny, itty bitty childhood crush, as most 4-year-old girls do. So negligible that she nearly forgot about it.

Richard York. That’s one name she hasn’t thought about in years, and she’d gotten good at it, in spite of the endless juvenile summer days and nights spent together and even going to the same traditional, snooty, white-gloved preschool—the Episcopal School. Truth is, her wardrobe didn’t bother her; vanity was just a front for what really irked her: that lurking expectation that after a single conversation, she and Richard would be Bonnie and Clyde 2.0 all over again; like the years, time zones, and bodies of water that separated them could be so easily bridged in a day.

Like history didn’t happen.

Richard is now a stranger to her, and quite frankly, she didn’t—and couldn’t—care enough about him to change that. Besides; change wasn’t something she was big fan of. She was fine with where they were—finally. Oh, and don’t get her started on the inevitable small talk. Just cause she was good at it, didn’t mean she liked it—who did?

So, she opens her social media to check on the boy she once knew. Both his Instagram and Twitter accounts were private, but he did have a LinkedIn profile, and they were friends on Facebook. His lengthy LinkedIn profile made it abundantly clear that he was going to study law. He’s got a degree in BA Law from Cambridge (where he ranked second in his class, Magna Cum Laude) and spent a year at the University of Poitiers. He was also a speaker for TEDxCambridgeUniversity, President of the Cambridge University Law Society, and a former Chairman of the Cambridge University Pro Bono Society. Naturally, he’s been a summer intern for the York and Warwick London office and the United Nations.

A tiny smile arises from Anne. _Looks like he’s getting everything he’s ever wanted._

His Facebook isn’t much; mainly graduation photos, publicity material for various organizations, and the occasional puppy or dog photo. His professors seem to be pleased with him. One commented that “it was a pleasure to have taught such a remarkable young man. I’m sure you will go far, Richard. Cheers!” There are shots of him in society events and parties; some where girls surround him, others where it’s just him and the boys.

Anne couldn’t quite place whether she found Richard handsome. Sure, he wasn’t bad looking. One might even say he was unconventionally attractive. He’d grown his thick, brown curls, which he slicked back occasionally, but was mostly let loose. There were some angles where he was absolutely dashing, but at times, he smiled like it hurt. He did have an amazing jawline and his eyes weren’t the creepy, bulging ones Isaac exaggerated them to be. They were big, yes, but also pleasant and expressive. He seemed slim, fit, and tall; although, based on the family photo during his graduation, he was the shortest of York brothers. They’d all grown so beautifully; not one of them was plain. George’s snooty expression was still there, albeit less apparent. Edward had definitely matured—he’s what, 34 now?—but he was still startlingly handsome as ever. Maybe he’s one of those guys who get better with age. Without a doubt, his two older brothers were at least associates at York and Warwick, the firm Richard was destined for. It’s essentially his birthright.

Anne quickly tires of creeping on his social media. She gulps down her rosé and sighs soft enough that no one notices.

It’s been 13 years since she last saw Richard.

 _“I got you. You hear me? I got you,”_ she recalls telling Richard at 9 years old.

She scrolls through just the distraction she needs: 9GAG. However, no classical art or animal meme could drown out idealistic protests that in this day and age, their bond should have trounced the 3,454 miles, the 5-hour time difference, and Atlantic Ocean. Thank God the dominant realist kicks her idealistic ass and berates her for being a cheesy romanticist.

People come and go, life gets in the way—she’s no exception to these truths.

Anne’s known that a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Photo credit:  
> \- Dianne Warwick: Juliet Aubrey's (https://cdn.vox-cdn.com/thumbor/nRjcRJtksqzr9els816Zto2bDtM=/0x600/cdn.vox-cdn.com/uploads/chorus_asset/file/4833141/75505316.0.jpg)  
> \- Anne Warwick: Faye Marsay (http://images6.fanpop.com/image/photos/40900000/Faye-Marsay-faye-marsay-40915541-1536-2048.jpg)  
> \- Anne's outfit: Jessica of Bows & Sequins (https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/23/10/39/23103919150780067b68d5a18baba722.jpg), Chanel sunnies (https://i.pinimg.com/originals/23/c5/0e/23c50e000acd71fbb2aad0f507efc3d5.jpg)  
> \- Atlas: https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRa3phiWZLIEU3EKIgVzfuaFSAE_b2MuUWTgYYZhI2rDxQUrxJ1  
> \- Rickard Warwick: James Frain (https://i.pinimg.com/564x/60/ba/bb/60babb9835a057dc22c85b53aee03f3a.jpg)  
> \- Rolex: https://i.pinimg.com/736x/e7/9a/2e/e79a2e61beee2ebb27c897df9cb44dab--man-watches-rolex-watches.jpg  
> \- Ralph Lauren Polo: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/16/19/d5/1619d508b4d4ba27d56b74dc6a7f0776.jpg  
> \- Isaac Warwick: Aidan Turner (https://assets.paddle8.com/1430/3854/156404/156404-1521738555-AIDAN%20TURNER%20headshot2-xl.jpg)  
> \- Isaac running: Bradley Cooper (https://i.pinimg.com/originals/67/f3/b1/67f3b16b3273d35bd976851f012301a2.jpg)  
> \- Limo: http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/01205/madoff-apartment46_1205706c.jpg  
> \- Warwick residence: 1136 Fifth Avenue (https://cdn.vox-cdn.com/thumbor/nRjcRJtksqzr9els816Zto2bDtM=/0x600/cdn.vox-cdn.com/uploads/chorus_asset/file/4833141/75505316.0.jpg, https://cdn-img-feed.streeteasy.com/nyc/image/12/201252612.jpg)  
> \- Manhattan: (https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRAAGdPz9NRqGQ5h6OFQf8RLn1SURwAYJkisImQ3shK41Vr8-o6, https://wp.zillowstatic.com/streeteasy/4/Upper_East_Side_Park_Avenue-f8427e.jpg, https://cdn.newsday.com/polopoly_fs/1.17922235.1523212532!/httpImage/image.jpeg_gen/derivatives/landscape_768/image.jpeg)  
> \- Richard: Aneurin Barnard (https://i.pinimg.com/originals/95/9a/a5/959aa5bb100fea2f9ce81902a6e685fd.jpg, https://www.indiewire.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/Screen20shot202012-03-1420at204.45.5820PM.png?w=688)  
> \- George: David Oakes (http://images6.fanpop.com/image/photos/32600000/David-david-oakes-32644352-248-320.png)  
> \- Edward: Max Irons (https://media.gettyimages.com/photos/actor-max-irons-from-the-film-condor-poses-for-a-portrait-in-the-picture-id932166918?s=612x612)  
> \- University of Cambridge (https://static.businessinsider.com/image/51abd6ba6bb3f7231f00001c-750.jpg, https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSm4Bz9NRuFNA0SLdgfJzZGtGCkyboIpdJH3AxF22oqDq5MvDtS)  
> \- Anne's party: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/b5/24/01/b5240142726cdc8332c450424fdf3528.jpg, https://i.pinimg.com/originals/50/41/27/504127ef7a94a0f28238611e06d7ed04.jpg, https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTGgiNAzOuyx6lp8qO30vCJ4vIggd--pNY6H0Ld2aXA8nFqDWrAKg, http://partydecormart.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/diy-princess-party-favors-theme-1000-ideas-about-royal-princess-birthday-on-pinterest-princess.jpg, https://i.pinimg.com/736x/d2/9b/43/d29b431312abccf25d82b27bcd70550e--aurora-cake-princess-party.jpg


	2. God, those eyes

A taxi pulls up at the gateway of the Warwicks’ Shingle-style summer retreat on West End Road, East Hampton. From it emerges Cecily York, a natural beauty in her late fifties. The Managing Partner at the York and Warwick London office is stunning and superbly put together in the perfect white Burberry trench coat, Manolo Blahnik snakeskin kitten heels, and her trademark bob haircut. She removes her sizeable black Chanel sunglasses to inspect the beach-town escape as Edward, 34 years old, pays the cab and her two other sons step out—George at 30 and Richard at 22. Among them, only Richard had not inherited her dirty blonde mane. The glorious estate screams of old money elegance, as it always has. The hydrangeas bloomed, butterflies fluttered, birds chirped, and the temperature rose.

Cecily makes her way to the front door, while George and Richard follow with the luggage. Ringing the doorbell, she calls out, “hello? Dianne? Rickard?”

No response.

“This place hasn’t changed a bit,” Edward says, having caught up with his family and quickly removing his grey Armani trench coat.

“And neither have the Warwicks. Bet they aren’t even here yet. Too busy to enjoy their humble abode,” George snidely remarks, wiping the sweat off his forehead.

23,000 square feet, 4 acres of land, 12 bedrooms, 13 baths, a heated pool, gardens, helipad, home theater, gym, sauna, wine cellar, tennis court, access to Georgica Pond: hellishly humble.

Cecily doesn’t acknowledge her sons but takes a deep breath because the chances of the Warwicks being late to anywhere outside of New York is all too high. She rings the doorbell twice, hoping that some help would greet them. She’s exhausted; she hadn’t gotten sleep before their 9-hour jet ride to East Hamptons Airport, and she had grossly miscalculated the American summer heat.

Suddenly, the delicately carved black gloss door swings open to reveal Elsie, the Warwicks’ Hamptons caretaker—brunette, late forties, good-natured eyes, great sense of humor, and easily one of the most lovable women on the planet. “Hello, Mrs. York! You probably don’t remember me—“

“Hello, Elsie,” Cecily uncharacteristically gives her a warm hug, surprising Elsie and the York brothers who give each other a look; the only person Cecily greets with a hug is George. “It has been too long, hasn’t it?”

“Oh, you said it, Mrs. York! But look at you! You’re even more fantastic than when you were last here!” Elsie takes Cecily’s red leather D-Cube Tod’s carryall, and the two women share a laugh.

Stepping into the bright entry foyer, illuminated by a huge, breathtaking chandelier, Cecily praised Jesus for centralized air conditioning—which wasn’t installed in 2000—and reintroduces Elsie to her sons. “You remember my eldest, Edward; my middle-born, George; and my youngest, Richard.”

All men shake Elsie’s hand as she tells Cecily how well and handsomely her sons have grown. “Goodness, how time flies. The last time I saw you, Sir Richard, you were about this small,” Elsie lowered her hand roughly 4 feet off the ground, “and you were riding ponies with little miss Anne. Although I can’t say she’s little now. Neither of you is!”

“Yes, I do recall our baby brother falling off the horse while he was trying to impress Savannah,” George teased, although he went unnoticed by Richard.

“How is Savannah, Elsie? Shall she be joining us this weekend?” Cecily pushed her sunglasses on top of her head.

“Oh, yes, ma’am! The Warwicks don’t come down here if they aren’t the complete set!” Elsie chimed as they climbed up the winding white marble staircase, lined by a wrought-iron balustrade.

“You remember these steps, little brother?” George cried over his shoulder.

“How could I forget?” Richard smirked.

From the 9th level, 4-year-olds Richard and Anne dropped a bucket of DIY Sour Patch Kids slime on George and Isaac, launching a series of mischief and pranks involving fake worms, water balloons, cooking oil, mothballs—where did 10-year-olds George and Isaac even get those?—and innumerable broccoli meals.

“Asshole,” George sniggered.

The second-floor stair landing shows an enfilade of arched cased openings, whereas the stair hall alcove is decorated with elliptical windows and occasional family photos. The west wing contains the Warwicks’ rooms, while the east wing is where the Yorks will reside—at the end of it is Richard’s room, beside George’s.

Richard drops his bags on the white queen-sized bed and peers through the large floor to ceiling window that’s flooding his room with sunlight. The rear of the mansion overlooks a sandstone-paved pool, outfitted with umbrellas and lounge chairs. Gardens with hydrangeas, shrub, and perennials surround the back of the estate. The property is tucked into its own cove on the most prestigious street in East Hampton and offers an incredible vista created by the lush grounds alongside Georgica Pond.

Now, Richard’s stayed at his share of extravagant seaside homes owned by some mates from Eton and Cambridge. His grandparents enjoy a charming, lavish property on Sandbanks, Dorset. Heck, the Yorks themselves lived in Kensington, west London, on Kensington Palace Gardens—the most expensive street in the UK where you”ll find the likes of the Princes William and Harry. But being in this mansion made all that seem immaterial, which has to be one of the most ridiculous ideas to cross his mind.

Once he finished sorting out his travel essentials, he trades in his leather ACNE bomber and Adidas track pants for a Rag & Bone standard issue beach shirt and striped shorts. Although he’d like to explore the grounds more, it is unbecoming as a guest, so he lounges on his bed instead. He shut his eyes in an attempt to vacation; he hasn’t had one since college started and the concept of taking a break is nearly foreign to him. He figures he’s got it easy compared to the rest of his family—they’re the ones who are in the bar.

Just then, his door swings open.

“I see knocking and manners are unpopular in America, as well,” Richard remarks, without moving an inch or opening his eyes.

“Not as if you have anything to hide from us in here or in England, baby brother,” Edward strides in, now dressed in a pastel blue Lacoste polo, white Ralph Lauren trousers, and dark blue Louis Vuitton loafers.

“I fear the day Richard does lock his room,” George quips from behind, clad in a striped ACNE chambray shirt, bright-peach Onslow cotton shorts, and premium black leather Birkenstock sandals—probably the only pair Richard wouldn’t throw into a fire.

“God knows what you two do behind your apartments’ locked doors,” Richard jests as his brothers make themselves comfortable.

“Hey, look at this!” Edward sits on Richard’s bed and grabs the amusing photo on the vintage nightstand; in it are the York and Warwick progeny as kids, playing in the pool. He laughs at how scrawny he and his siblings were; George even cringes at the sight of it. “Good God, Edward! Put it away!” Classic George; he’s practically hidden away the majority of his adolescent photos. It’s not like George wasn’t good-looking; quite the opposite. He just never feels handsome enough.

Richard finally rolls to his side to examine the photograph. Edward’s carrying their old pug Vulcan. At opposite ends of the photo are George and Isaac, one on a rideable seahorse in an inflatable carousel float, the other in a giant inflatable water wheel. Smack in the middle of the chaos were Richard and Anne, standing on the pool pavement. He was covering her eyes and sticking his tongue out as she was having a hoot with the Little Mermaid Musical Light-Up Blower Wand he’d given her.

“Aww, Richard. Look at you. Already a lady’s man,” Edward teased when he noticed the surreptitious half-smile on Richard’s face.

“Learned from the best,” Richard winks at his brother. Of course, this in no way was true for Richard, at least. Sure, there were tons of birds at Cambridge—gorgeous, stunning birds—but dating never really appealed to him and besides; he hasn’t met anyone interesting enough to change his mind. George is similar but had been on way more dates than he has. On the other hand, Edward, ever the alpha male, may have already slept with half of the student population when he was at Cambridge.

“It’s nice that you’re sucking up to your future boss, little brother, but seriously, though, let’s talk business,” he places a firm hand on Richard’s shoulder blade and looks him straight in the eye. It’s tense in the room; what could this be about now? Is the firm reconsidering him for a summer job?

.

.

.

“When was the last time you got shagged?”

“Oh, my God…” Richard rolls his eyes and dives back into the mattress, covering his face with a pillow while he’s at it. His two brothers crack up while they fist bump.

“Alright, alright. Sorry, Rich.” George says, trying to calm himself down. “I guess Edward’s trying to fill in the gap of knowledge about you ever since you went up to Cambridge.”

“Please; you both went to Cambridge, and I never asked about your love or sex lives.” The pillow on his face muffled Richard's voice. He was never known as “the fun one”—that was reserved for Edward; although “the naughty one” has been thrown in once in a while, next to “the pretty one”—not to be confused with “the petty one,” who George, sadly was (and still, Cecily loved him the best). “The quiet one,” “the reserved one,” “the serious one”—those are his labels. Richard liked to think people meant responsible, ambitious, and cool as ice.

“Exactly,” Edward snapped and pointed the finger at Richard. “You never asked because the answer was always clear.”

_Not exactly…_

“So, back to the million dollar question: do you have a girlfriend?” Edward asked like he was interrogating a witness.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I do not,” Richard responded, eyes now covered by his arm.

“Boyfriend?”

“Nope.”

“Sleep with anyone lately?”

“Negative.”

“Lack of takers?”

“Lack of interest.”

“What are you, a virgin?”

“That would be unfortunate,” George finally weighs in.

“Again, no,” Richard’s tone made it apparent that he was getting tired of his life put on trial.

“You’re not a virgin anymore?” George puts his hand on his mouth like that monkey emoji. “What would mommy say???”

“Guys!” Richard’s voice boomed in the room as he rose. “My sex life is fine! I’ve had a few rounds with a few girls without any malice or strings attached. Now, is there a reason why you’re acting like one of mom’s partners or brunch guests, trying to fix me up with their dull daughters?”

“Who were they?” Edward asked cheekily, all ears.

“Catherine and—hey!!!”

Once again, Edward and George burst out laughing. While Edward was still crouching on the grey carpet, George tried to stable himself using the Toledo desk. “Look, we know romance and sex aren’t the topics that are usually right up your alley, and you probably think it isn’t any of our business—”

“And it isn’t. You do know that, right?”

“Perfectly!” Edward stresses and rushes next to Richard. “But in a couple of months, you’ll be going to law school, and not just any law school. Harvard! Now, I’m sure your reasons for choosing Harvard over Cambridge are well-founded—”

“Edward, we’ve been through this…”

“Hear me out!” Edward puts his arm on Richard’s shoulder, which Richard’s got the urge to remove.

“Harvard… they’ve got a different dating culture from Cambridge,” Edward points out.

“Or lack thereof,” George interposes.

“People over there are married to the library,” Edward says.

“Which is why they’re the number 1 law school in the world,” Richard responds, matter-of-factly.

“Which is why so many of them are unhappy.” Now, Edward seemed dead serious. “It’s a given that law school’s no picnic. But the competition there is cutthroat, and the profs are aloof.”

“I’m quite aware of those,” Richard’s reclined himself once again.

“And like it or not, Richard, relationships are integral to our well-being. Find a girl or two before going to Harvard! Have a summer fling! Take Anne out for dinner!”

Anne, Anne, Anne. To his day, his brothers’ shipping never ceased. RichAnne, they used to call the pair, much to Richard’s chagrin. Unfortunately, he barely knows Savannah Warwick now—a circumstance that was once unfathomable as a child. The freshest thing that comes to mind about her is that she was studying psychology at Harvard. It amazes and scares him how someone he enormously valued growing up has hardly crossed his mind in recent years.

“We don’t talk anymore,” he says stoically.

“What? At all? Didn’t she used to write you letters when you were at Eton?” George sounds like he cares.

“Yeah,” Richard appears unconcerned; or at least he hopes so. The truth is,  something—guilt? Regret? Both?—electrified every nerve ending in his body.

“What happened?”

Richard shrugs. There was a ton of reasons why they couldn’t maintain their friendship—and a million more why he should have tried harder.

But what’s done is done. He always moves forward, and he’d do it all over again if he had to. To Richard, looking back is fine; but going back? Never.

“Okay. Just don’t enter school stressed as hell, because it is not a good start, mate.”

“I am not stressed. I am on vacation,” Richard lies through his teeth. Fine. Alright. Maybe he was only beginning to digest that he just had weeks before law school and he didn’t know what to do. When he was at Cambridge, he’d always come up with a mental to-do list once he graduated: hike along the Pembrokeshire Coast, see the Taj Mahal, re-read all of Robert Greene’s books (especially _Mastery_ , _The 48 Laws of Power_ , and _33 Strategies of War_ ), and marathon _Alfred Hitchcock Presents_. The profuse weight of law school—one abroad, at that—coming up was overwhelming and right now, he didn’t know where to begin with his list, or if he could, given where he is. Perhaps he could read  _Mastery_ at the beach or stream Hitchcock films on Netflix. 

George scoffed. “Please! We practically dragged your ass out of Kensington, and we’re the ones with a billable requirement on our heads!”

“He’s right, Rich. I am telling you, you look like you’re at a funeral, not the Hamptons.” Edward said, leaning against the glass window. “Your funeral, to be specific. And that position is not helping!” He meant Richard sleeping flat on his back, arms down and close to his body.

“This is how I sleep.”

“Why the fuck are you trying to sleep when you slept like a log the entire flight?” George questioned.

“Because I am trying to get some rest before I surrender myself to law school.”

“And this isn’t Pennsylvania! Who are you, Dracula???”

“I am goddamn Dracula.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Richard!!!” Edward shouts.

Richard doesn’t move a muscle, nor does he say a word; neither do his brothers.

_I’m sorry, Edward and George. You know how much I value your insights—_

_Which means you’re going to ignore our advice_ , Edward would likely retort.

Just as Richard’s about to come out with his apology, out of nowhere, lightning quick, George spreads Richard’s legs and kneels between them. With his back to Richard, he positions his hands behind the knees. Edward, on the other hand, kneels at Richard’s head, slides his hands under Richard’s arms and across the chest, locking Richard’s hands together.

“What—what the fuck!? Bollocks!!! Edward! George!” Richard yells, eyes wide open as if anticipating his impending doom.

The two men rise together, lifting Richard and heading toward the unbolted door. When the fuck did that happen?!

“God damn it, you bloody cock-ups, what are you doing?!? Put me down!!!”

The brothers charge down the hallway and spiral staircase, grinning like madmen.

“Or what, little brother? You gonna run to mummy?” Edward jibed.

“That trick isn’t as effective on you, Rich!” George cried out; he knew he was the favorite.

The brothers sprint through the large arched opening connecting the dining room from the foyer. Richard’s swears and protests echo throughout the mansion, and he hears what he thinks is his mother screaming from the second floor. Before he knew it, they were speeding toward the pool terrace, and Richard finally pieces it all together.

“Hold it, guys, hold it!!!” Richard pleads as his brothers begin to swing him from side to side.

“What’s that?” Edward pauses. “George, did you hear the wet blanket speak?”

“Pretty sure I didn’t,” George resumes moving Richard by the legs.

“Alright! Alright!!! I’ll go out this summer!! You won’t see me lying around!!! No more Dracula!!!”

“It’s fucking creepy, Rich,” Edward cuts in.

“I swear it by my honor!” Richard implored.

“Chivalry’s dead, you muppet!” George laughed.

“Fine, then I swear on my record collection!!!” Richard yelled. Edward and George looked at each other smugly. They had him. He’s got every jazz, rock, and blues vinyl record that’s worth a damn, lining the wall of his room. It was inspired by the wall of records in his father’s office, most of which were gifted by clients. Neither Edward nor George shared their father and Richard’s knowledge or passion for music—obscure or otherwise.

“No need to beg, little brother!” Edward jokes as they let go of Richard. With his feet safely planted on the sandstone, Richard readjusts and smoothens his beach shirt, aware that his brothers are looking quite pleased with themselves, having terrorized him like they weren’t grown men.

_If that’s the way you want it…_

Richard swiftly pushes his brothers into the deep end of the pool, landing with a massive splash. Suddenly, Edward and George don’t seem so superior now.

“Fuck!!!!” George screeches so loud, it must have terrified the swans swimming across Georgica Pond. “My fucking phone was in my damn pocket, you dickhead!!!”

Richard’s eyes shot open. He assumed that neither George nor Edward would have their phones on them from the moment they conspired to catapult him into the pool.

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry, George!” Richard reaches out to help George out of the water. “I just thought—holy fuck!!!!” George grips his hand forcefully and yanks him into the 6.5-foot deep end. Not before long, Richard’s head emerges to his brothers exploding with laughter.

“Your phone’s on the bedside counter, isn’t it, you prick?!” Richard splashed his brothers’ faces strongly in between laughs.

“‘Course it is!” George splashed back, while Edward hurled a white beach ball at George, indicating that in this water fight, there were no loyalties. For the first time in what feels like 87 years, the sons of York didn’t have to worry about anything related to the law—no depositions, subpoenas, class actions, or sassy paralegals.

.

.

.

Till a tiny, tawny-eared, fawn-colored Pembroke Welsh corgi beside the handrail began barking at them. The men immediately froze, and Richard dropped the beach ball as people congregated in the pool terrace. Cecily was displeased; her head was shaking subtly, lips were pursed, and a vexed gaze was hidden behind her sunglasses—thank God. To her left were the Warwicks, looking tall and stately, just as Richard recalls them. They are older, but authoritarian in spite of their summer dress. He could make out his mother speaking to them, likely apologizing for their unseemly behavior. Rickard Warwick looks the least impressed between the two managing partners. It is too early in the day for this crap.

A towering, brown-haired man with fine facial structure flocks to Rickard’s side. He’s wearing dark sunglasses to mask his hangover as if yesterday’s crumpled suit didn’t give it away. Although, he’s sober enough to react to the strange scene before him; his forehead was scrunched up, and an eyebrow was higher than the other. He was also able to restrain his great, woofing golden retriever from joining the corgi. He must be Isaac, York and Warwick’s youngest junior partner ever. Lastly, together with Elsie, a young woman arrives and is visibly puzzled by the spectacle of three fully clothed men, virtually aliens, splashing around her pool.

She steps forward to collect the dog, still yapping inexhaustibly. “Summer! A time for mindless pleasure, no, mom? Dad?” She says in high spirits, obviously trying to break the ice and save the York brothers from utter disgrace. Warwick’s creased face gradually breaks into a grin. “Of course, honey!” He calls from the terrace, and it appears that no harm had been done. Elsie ran to the pool with fresh towels.

“Atlas! Here, boy!” She pushed up the white sunglasses atop her head before scooping up the canine.

It’s Anne. Richard recognizes her, yet he simultaneously does not. _This is her?_ Who he saw surprised him—pleasantly. Anne had grown up; not that he didn’t expect that, but he found it hard to believe that the little girl with scrapes and scabs was this gorgeous woman standing before him. She had the same dirty blonde waves, the same ivory skin, the same petiteness, the same optimism in her voice—features that normally wouldn't turn heads or make anyone look twice. But there was something drastically different about her, too—aside from the crystal clear increase in bust size.

It was her eyes. God, those eyes. Richard tried not to stare or scrutinize, but was she always this doe-eyed? Were her eyes always this blue that the pool’s color bounced off her irises? Hers were like stars that hooked you in to explore all the stories behind them. 

“Sorry. He gets excited around guests,” Anne cradled the dog, which cooled down right away, like an infant in their mother’s arms.

“S’alright,” Edward grabbed hold of the rail. “Makes the both of us.” He flashes the famous smile women found so hard to resist. It looks like it’s worked because Anne’s grinning from ear to ear.

“Savannah,” George nods at her cordially.  

“Just ‘Anne’ would be okay, George,” she nods back, still beaming the warmest smile.

“‘Course,” he hurriedly grabbed a towel and followed Edward to greet the rest of the Warwicks.

Her smile drops as she waits for Richard to surface. When he does, she briskly hands him a towel. “Hello, Anne,” he greets her with a wan smile on his face.

“Hey, Richard.”

They’re looking at each other, and for a brief moment, time stops.

“Excuse me,” she shuffles off as fast as she can with her dog and disappears into the living room.

Richard realizes that while he’s standing there, watching her like a buffoon, he was still dripping wet with unbelievably unkempt hair, and had yet to greet the Warwicks.

Time starts ticking again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Photo credit:  
> \- Hamptons masion exterior: https://media.architecturaldigest.com/photos/55e76a52cd709ad62e8eadf2/master/w_800,h_1100,c_limit/dam-images-architects-2006-01-wharton-arsl01_shoperenowharton.jpg, http://www.cottages-gardens.com/images/cache/cache_a/cache_a/cache_d/29537-KDHamptons-Kelli-Delaney-Outdoor-Entertaining-Guide-Hydrangeas-68012daa.jpeg?ver=1531809149&aspectratio=1.1793214862682, https://static1.squarespace.com/static/511fb84be4b0b5151b6ed615/t/5963c52e8419c21f61afd5ee/1499717075537/purewow+hamptons+hydrangea+house?format=1000w  
> \- Cecily York: Caroline Goodall (http://thefancarpet.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/Caroline_Goodall_24520_Medium.jpg)  
> \- Cecily's outfit: Anna Wintour (https://i.pinimg.com/originals/1a/ca/15/1aca152de2269b113d3433558919cd0d.jpg), CÉLINE sunglasses (https://s3.favim.com/orig/141027/accessories-beach-beautiful-black-and-white-Favim.com-2184333.jpg)  
> \- Entry foyer: http://www.millermillerrealestate.com/images/realtor-photography/017.jpg  
> \- Staircase: http://www.millermillerrealestate.com/images/realtor-photography/027.jpg  
> \- Second-floor enfilade: https://cdn.deringhall.com/assets/53bed1401b7eaa3356000005/original/RAMSA_20.jpg?auto=format&h=647&q=60&w=970  
> \- Richard's room: https://architecturebeast.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/The_Most_Minimalist_House_Ever_Designed_featured_on_architecture_beast_09.jpg  
> \- Pool: https://media.architecturaldigest.com/photos/55e76a56302ba71f3016879c/master/w_1400,h_1000,c_limit/dam-images-architects-2006-01-wharton-arsl08_shoperenowharton.jpg  
> \- Pool splash: https://thumbs.dreamstime.com/b/pure-water-splash-26665456.jpg  
> \- Anne's eyes: Faye Marysay (https://image.tmdb.org/t/p/w780/3cd4rLHr90MRTTx2aD9XkXPrwW9.jpg)


	3. Legend has it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This used to be merged with ch 4 but i found it tol long lol

"After I heard about the heart attack scare, I rang Rick up immediately and subtly told that perhaps he could take a year off," Cecily recounted for Isaac, Dianne, and Rickard at the pool terrace, overlooking the garden and reflecting pool. The warmer the temperature, the greater Isaac's urge to spend every minute outdoors, far from the 52-storey skyscraper in Times Square, Midtown Manhattan that houses York and Warwick New York.

“Sacrilege,” Isaac joked.

“I told him to travel! See the world! Pay it forward and teach the youth!” Adopting a gruff, masculine voice, she mimicked Rickard’s response. “ _'Teach? TEACH? Do you hear yourself, woman???_ ”

Isaac and Dianne couldn’t contain their laughter; even Rickard found it amusing.

“Was that supposed to be me, Cess? God, you never fail to make me sound like an asshole,” Rickard remarked in between chuckles.

“Well, then, my Rickard York impression is dead-on!”

At this point, the York matriarch and Isaac’s parents were in much brighter spirits from when they witnessed the York brothers’ little escapade just moments ago. His father was practically fuming, while Cecily was at a loss of words due to sheer shame at her sons’ uncalled for display of abdomens. He thought that Edward, George, and Richard would stay paralyzed in the water when they were caught, but thank goodness, his sister Anne came to rescue.

And why wouldn’t she? Legend has it Anne would do anything for a certain brown-haired boy.  

By now, the two older York brothers had already gone to their rooms to spruce up. But just then, Isaac notices his sister bolting for the door. He takes a quick glance at the pool and finds Richard York, drying himself while studying her walking—or running—away, completely dumbstruck.

“Just a thought, but we haven’t unpacked yet, have we, mom and dad? I’d better get to it,” Isaac excuses himself to follow his sister upstairs.

“Sure, honey,” Dianne nods at her son.

"Why don't you show Cess around the gardens, Dianne? I'll see to it that Elsie doesn't just serve me a damn salad again," Rickard bellowed loudly, trying to get his voice to travel down the cavernous hallway and into the kitchen.

"Oh, I'd love that, Dianne! We do need to catch up!" Cecily linked her arm with Dianne's.

“Then I’ll leave you ladies to it!” Milton enters the pool terrace, carrying three full martini glasses. “Oh, Milton! Good thinking!” Rickard grabs one before flinging open the doors of Dianne’s ancestral home.  

"She's serving him Cesar salad, isn't she?" Cecily suspiciously raised her perfectly arched eyebrows as she accepted her drink.

“He thinks he’s getting a lamb chop,” Dianne scoffs. “I’ve got to hand it to my people; he takes in more greens, less crap now, whether he knows it or not.” Dianne clinks her glass against Cecily’s.

“Who is Dianne Beauchamp Warwick without a little scheming, even if it’s been reduced to the household?”

Traversing the velvety green lawn, Dianne guilefully smirks, “I think we both know that’s where it counts the most.”

“No truer words have ever been spoken,” Cecily glanced over the glittering, rippling blue water. “Which reminds me, I have a proposition for you…”

* * *

Anne puts Atlas down and catches her breath in front of the oversized white mirror in the stair landing. She shakes her head, stunned by her behavior, and even more so by her reflection.

Holy crap, she didn’t like what she saw.

A few steps behind her is Isaac, sprinting to catch up and forcing her to linger in front of her reflection when she'd rather head straight to her room right now. She watches Atlas scamper down the hallway and land right in front of her bedroom door.

Once at the top of the staircase, Isaac removes his Tom Ford Snowdon sunglasses and inspects his sister’s face which is, for all she is trying too hard to hide her impatience, nevertheless charming.

“What was that about?” He briefly checks on the dark circles under his eyes—still enormous and swollen, eliciting a grimace.

The two move toward the west wing. “Just needed to see if I forgot something.”

She has got to get better at lying. It was stupid enough to lie to a lawyer, but telling her brother a fib was almost always futile. Rare was the instance when Isaac couldn’t see through her.

“Uh-huh, and I suppose _Boys Gone Wild: York Edition_ did not affect you?" Isaac teased.

"I hardly call unwarranted frolicking in our pool as ‘wild,'" Anne unlocked her immaculately decorated room to find her Kate Spade streamline stow-away and carry-on already beside her French country bed.

Sunshine spilled through the great wall-to-ceiling window into the room—a tasteful blend of cream, gold, and pastel pink. "‘Immature' is more like it." She began unpacking her clothes while Isaac perched himself on the blush pink velvet sofa. Meanwhile, Atlas finds himself at home on his white plush dog bed.

“Shit. I forgot my favorite t-shirt,” Anne clucked her tongue as she rummaged through her multitude of clothing. It was true, though; she had left her yellow, vintage Wonder Woman logo t-shirt: the comfiest garment in her wardrobe.

“Oh? Thought I saw it downstairs,” Isaac got up, pushed past the white curtains, and watched his mother strolling arm in arm with Aunt Cecily, enclosed by rich foliage. From above, they looked like a pair of gossiping teenagers. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d attest to adults acting like children.

"Huh? What would it be doing out of my luggage?" Anne asked while she laid her Clinique skincare and MAC makeup kit out on her bedspread.

“Clinging onto Richard York’s torso just minutes ago,” Isaac jests, causing Anne to hurl a white satin throw pillow at him. “Hey!”

“For your information, Edward’s got the better abs.”

“Biased to this day. You are fiercely loyal,” he takes a seat back on the sofa. “Isn’t that lucky for Lancaster?” Anne bites her lip at the mention of that name.

“And you fiercely reek of whiskey, strippers, and bad decisions,” she calls from her pink marbled bathroom, while she adds her makeup supplies onto her vanity. “Why don’t you chill a bit before lunch?”

Isaac ran his fingers through his greasy, lengthy, sideways combed dark brown hair. “I suppose—”

“In your room?” Anne pops her head out the door adjoining the bathroom.

“Fine.” Isaac stretches as he arises. “Might as well shower while I’m at it.”

“Thank God for that,” she says while rearranging her bedsheet. “Your hair is offensive. I knew you didn’t shower.”

Isaac flips the finger as he exits. “Love you, too!”

Once there’s no trace of her brother, Anne exhales sharply. She notices that Elsie has placed old photos of young Anne and Richard on her nightstand. She hasn’t seen these shots in such a long time, she’d forgotten they were even taken. There’s one of the pair at the beach and another where they're roasting marshmallows. Unfortunately, she isn’t overcome with the acute nostalgia she’s supposed to have. Why does her mom even have to display these? She’s trying too hard to revive Bonnie and Clyde.

Of course, she'd pictured what reuniting with her one-time best friend would be like. She'd envisioned herself as this lovely, elegant, mature lady that would dazzle the life out of anyone, especially Richard.

Boy, was she wrong.

Instead, she stood there at the pool, clutching a towel to her chest like a mindless idiot, while he went entirely pale, gawking at her like she was the ghost of childhood's past. At that moment, she realized two things:

  1. He is handsome—disarmingly so; 10 or 20 times more handsome than his photos online, especially with his tousled curls, toned abs, and sculpted biceps on full display just earlier. It’s a good thing that…
  2. she couldn’t stand to look at him—not without some revolting feeling of betrayal, bitterness, or disappointment.



 

Anne hides the photos in the mirrored drawer. All of a sudden, Atlas stands by the nightstand, barks, and stares at her, concerned. On most days, she'd entertain the dog, but she wasn't having it right now.

"Not now, Atlas…" She attempts to ignore him and fix the rest of her things, but the Corgi is persistent and licks whatever skin he can. "Alright, alright!" There's an outburst of laughter in the room as she lets him put her in good cheers. Anne cuddles her dog, and for some reason, he barks and looks like he knows he's done something right. "What do you think, boy?" She strokes the fur on his back. "I should just move on, forget about everything, and befriend him again, right?" Atlas woofs a resounding ‘yes!'

“God, sometimes I think you have it so easy. What problems have you got? You get along with everyone— _Canis_ and _Homo sapien_." She kisses Atlas' head. "But still no girls!" She raises and wiggles her index finger, and Atlas licks her face once more.

Three knocks pound on her door. It’s Milton, signaling her that lunch is ready. “Miss Anne, lunch will be at the redbrick terrace. Your father urges you to, how shall we put it? Hmm… hurry down at once.”

Anne smirks. She imagines her father commanded her to haul ass into the terrace to dine al fresco. "Thanks, Milton! I'll be right there!"

Suddenly, her Samsung Note8 vibrates. It’s Veronica, requesting a video call.

The two simultaneously shriek “hello!!!!” and “girl!!!!!”

“You look so good!” Anne compliments her best friend. Veronica, basking in the tropical paradise that is St. Barth’s, flashed a suntanned smile at Anne. She had lost 20 out of the 35 pounds she’d gained over college, was decked out in the latest Fashion Nova summer collection, and looked incredibly happy, at-home, and Kardashian-like (if that’s a good thing, Anne couldn’t say).

"Thank you, dear! Although, you still look like a pale chicken…"

Right old Veronica; perfect timing, as always.

* * *

_Savannah B. Warwick_

_Student at Harvard University_

_Cambridge, Massachusetts_

 

_Experience_

_Research Assistant_

_Centre for Brain Science at Harvard University_

_Feb 2016-May 2016_

 

_Education_

_Harvard University_

_Bachelor of Science (B.S.), Psychology_

_2014-2018_

_Activities and Societies: The Harvard Crimson (Writer), Harvard Student Mental Health Liaisons, Partners in Health Engage Harvard Chapter_

Fresh from a hot shower, Richard stands in front of the full-length mirrored closet, bare-chested, a towel wrapped around his waist. He studies Anne’s LinkedIn profile while he dries his floppy, tousled hair.

It didn’t even have a profile photo.

He shifts to her well-curated Instagram profile, where she's attracted some 26,200 followers with her sharp, minimal style in labels like Balenciaga and Jimmy Choo. Her feed radiates New York spirit and captures the Upper East Side in all its splendor, consisting of ornate UES townhouses, appetizing cafes and restaurants, and society galas. She also chronicles quintessential Harvard affairs: raging dorm room parties, Ivy League games, late nights in the library, candid laughter with classmates.

One of the comments on her photos is spot-on: she is the poster girl for beauty and brains; the perfect girl in a seemingly ideal world.

He smiles at a photo where she’s carrying her corgi, still a puppy at the time, which is licking her nose while she beams fantastically. It reminds him of all the times she’d drag him to pet stores in the UES and how she’d press her hands against the stores’ glass window, longing for the day Dianne would let her own a puppy.

He's surprised to find that they're connected on Facebook. She currently displays her graduation photo. Captioned with a simple, "Congratulations to Class 2018! Veritas!" the image receives 10,000 reactions—and with good reason. She's phenomenal in it. Her bright eyes twinkle with pride; hers is the face of clear victory. Scrolling through the multitude of comments, a classmate writes, "4 more years of Harvard!"

He could only assume that she’s going to Harvard Law. The Warwicks would never allow anything else, much less her grandmother, Isabel, who wields her trust fund like a sword.

Someone suddenly bangs on his door. “Open up, Rich!” It’s Edward, sounding eager.

"Gimme a sec!" Richard places his phone on the Toledo desk and briskly grabs a pair of blue Orlebar Brown cotton twill shorts. Once he unlocks the door, Edward's eyes shot to his chest and abdomen. Clapping his hands, Edward exclaims, "well done, Richard! Major gains! Makes you want to get a workout before heading to the office, don't it, George?"

"I never skip the gym, Edward," George not-so-subtly flexed his veiny biceps through his printed Prada cotton shirt, which is unbuttoned at the neck to show off just enough of his sculpted pectorals. Although the most handsome, Edward was arguably the least brawny amongst the brothers.

While Richard proceeds with drying his thick curls, Edward and George perch themselves on his bed. “Well, mum’s going to have our heads when we get down,” Edward sighed, sprawled across the minimalist black pine platform bed. “Any ideas how to pacify the old girl, George?”

“I was just going to give her a kiss and go about business as usual.”

"Brilliant. Smashing. Except that wouldn't be enough to save Richard and me, now would it?"

From the bathroom, Richard remarks, “y’know we wouldn’t be in this situation if you two wankers just buggered off earlier.”

“Don’t be smart, Rich. You’re the one who pushed us in,” George quips.

“Only got the idea from you, brother dear,” Richard mumbles.

“Besides,” Edward strode into the fierce afternoon sunshine seeping through the window and stretched his arms above his head. “It’s too nice outside!”

“Your pale, perfectly toned ass needed some sun,” George sneered. “As a fucking vampire.”

"Perhaps he's pissed because his shirt wasn't thin enough for Anne to get a good look at the goods," Edward, wearing a mischievous smile, nodded at Richard, now in a sky-blue cotton-jersey Burberry t-shirt.

“It doesn’t matter whether she liked me or not,” Richard said with disdain, shaking his hair all around and running his fingers through it. Surprisingly, he didn’t need any product; today was a good hair day.

“Oh? Then why’s her FaceBook page on your Safari?” George announced, grinning devilishly as he sat cross-legged on the stand-alone chair of the writing desk.

“Give me that,” Richard snatched the iPhone X from George. “Seriously, did all the manners from Eton leave your system?”

"And didn't mother teach you never to leave your valuables unattended? Even a monkey could lock a phone, Rich."

"Haha, hilarious," Richard hurriedly closes all of his applications. "Excuse me for having to drop everything to scamper for clothes before you broke the door down."

“You were naked while looking at her photos? Is that why you locked the fucking door this time?” Edward jests.

“Oh, my God, Edward, seriously, sometimes I forget that you’re 34.”

“Sometimes? More like 24/7,” George sneers.  

"Hey, hey. Just for laughs, mate. Just for laughs. Anyway, Rich," Edward idly flipped the glossy pages of the summer edition of Esquire that was tucked in one of the three drawers of the solid wood nightstand. "If you say you don't care about this girl, why the cyberstalking?"

“I wasn’t stalking,” Richard took a seat on the white faux leather upholstered sofa. “But I don’t know anything about this girl anymore, and you lot will inevitably pimp me to her.”

“No need, Rich,” George jibed. “You could pimp yourself. God knows you already dress the part.”

"I do not—do I?"

Edward holds out his palm, indicating maybe. “But to get the elephant out of the room, are you attracted to her?”

Of course, he is. They only met for a moment, yet he’s been reliving it over and over again in his mind. But he isn’t about to let anyone know that. “She’s not bad, I guess. Although nothing near extraordinary enough to make me burn, pine, or perish.”

“Whoa there, Shakespeare,” Edward threw the magazine onto the bed. “You’re kidding, right? That exquisite face? Those tits? Jesus Christ, where did she get those?”

Leave it to Edward to deem breast size as a woman’s best asset.

"Not from her mother, that's for sure," George scoffed as he spun the little metallic globe on the desk.

“Think she had them done, then?” Edward raised a page from Esquire, showing a string bikini-clad blonde with perfectly round, outrageously big melons, emerging from the sea.

"Nah," George catches the men's magazine that Edward tosses at him. "Girl's got a remarkably slim frame; figures why they look enormous."

“Wondrous thing puberty is, turning a snot-nosed brat into something that smoking hot, yet pure and completely unadulterated.” Edward grinned wickedly. Richard is less than amused at how perverted his brother is, but tolerates him, as he has since Edward hit his teenage years.

“You reckon she’s seeing anyone?” Edward turns his direction at Richard.  

“Weren’t you just matching me with her?” Richard raises his eyebrow dubiously at Edward.

“Yeah, but no use in that if you aren’t into her!” Edward, now next to Richard on the couch, draped a gregarious arm around Richard’s shoulders.

“She’s 12 years younger than you, Edward,” Richard jerked away, grabbing onto the sofa’s arm.

“Never stopped me before,” Edward shrugged his shoulders indifferently and cocked his eyebrow.  

“How ‘bout the fact that she’s our boss’ daughter?” George argued from his seat, amused by the possibility of scandal.

“Come on,” Edward scoffed. “The moment they knew they were going to have a baby girl, the Warwicks wanted her to marry one of us.”

“Are we somehow in the 1400s or something?” Richard, appalled, stared at his brother. Normally, he’d let Edward’s dirty drollery slide. He was all heart and soul for Edward, more than George ever would be for either of them, but right now, he felt a strange protectiveness over the stunning, ethereal, blue-eyed girl. “She is YOUR BOSS’ DAUGHTER. Don’t you know not to dip your pen in company ink? Wait, scratch that; you already have.”

"Can't be advised against messing with a colleague if she isn't in your workplace," Edward bantered.   

"The last thing we need is the wrath of Warwick, the man who has 55% share of the firm," Richard started to stand up, but forced himself to sit back down. Instead, he shoots Edward a menacing look. "The same man who would most certainly brandish his 5% over our mother like a mallet, all because you seduced the pearl of his world."

“And it’s perfectly acceptable to match you with her?” Edward swore under his breath. “You’ll be working for York and Warwick after Harvard!”  

"They're peers, you git," George mocked. "And he doesn't have a reputation for being a womanizer, nor did he send three warring women packing from the office!"

“All excellent points, although the daughter of the larger-than-life Rickard Warwick might prove to be more arduous to win over,” Edward pensively stroked his chin.

George thought of the sweet girl who greeted them earlier, then of her proud, haughty father, unaware that the Yorks were discussing his daughter. “A hundred dollars you don’t seal the deal,” he grinned wickedly.

“Who says that anymore?” Richard was puzzled.

“Done!” Edward accepted without hesitation.

"This is medieval and disgusting, and I’ll have nothing to do with it.” Richard stood up, a mixture of pride and disapproval in his eyes. “Put yourself in her shoes; metaphorically. You’ve got the feet of a clown.”

Jibe aside, and after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Edward gave in. He hated the way his brother invoked his holier-than-thou voice, and how Richard was right to do so. Was he going soft? "God damn it, Richard. Your honor is a proper double-edged sword."

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Richard nodded.

George scoffed. “You just stopped me from being a hundred dollars richer, you cold fish.”

“This is to shut you up,” Edward threw seventy dollars at the feet of George, who took them anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Photo credit:  
> \- Anne's room: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/25/10/5b/25105b1769822579e1e4676f7e06f745.jpg  
> \- Anne's bathroom: http://atlantahomesmag.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/AHL_Giles_0005-640x482.jpg, http://atlantahomesmag.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/AHL_Giles_0003-444x640.jpg  
> \- Richard's bathroom: https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRAfnI4SprHyD1HEBoHcphI20vdu1RpusF1hPCY4SeKvG8oo-Sa


	4. Let the games begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 3 and 4 used to be 1 chapter but I thought it was too long so

On the way to lunch, Richard stared at the surrounding landscape: fields of green grass, the vibrant blue sky, the glistening Georgica pond, and a blur of enormous shingled houses in the distance—the same as the landscape from summers in the distant past. The air smelled like a far-off barbecue and freshly mown grass.  

He soon approached the redbrick terrace overlooking the shore. The Warwicks occupied the head seats of the bluestone-top table, with Dianne on the shaded end, while sunshine percolated through the linden trees at Rickard's side. No sight of the Warwick kids. To Rickard's left was Cecily, who had a perfect view of the waterfront. The York brothers took their seats: Edward beside Cecily, followed by George who was at Dianne's right. To her left was Richard, leaving two vacant positions to his left.

Milton brought the first course: heirloom tomatoes and watermelon, topped with ricotta salata, and yellow tomato gazpacho with lobster.

“So, Richard!” Rickard called, dominating the table as per usual. He pointed his fork at Richard. “I hear you’re set to be a Harvard kid!”

“Yes, that’s right, Uncle Rick,” Richard lifts his eyes as he cuts through a tomato.

“Had I known you wanted to go to our alma mater, I’d have written you the most stellar recommendation, Harvard would have fallen over themselves to accept you!

“Darling, I think Richard’s credentials spoke for themselves,” Dianne winked at Richard.

And perhaps his surname gave him an edge?

“I second that, Dianne!” Rickard raised his glass of champagne for a spontaneous toast. “To Richard!”

“Cheers!” the party said.

He knew Rickard meant well, but Richard never liked being the center of attention. When he got into Harvard, he didn't even celebrate with his friends; amidst the last few weeks of undergrad, how could he? Besides, at the end of the day, it was one goal down; now onto the next.

Although, he did wonder if it would have been different had his father lived to see this say; would he have raised a toast to Richard? There was nothing Richmond York wanted more than for his sons to go to Harvard Law; after all, York and Warwick strictly hired only from Harvard, but when the Yorks moved to London after Richmond’s mother fell ill, the firm had included Cambridge and Oxford into the fold. “Thanks, everybody,” Richard said after he took a giant gulp of champagne.

“Sure, thing, kiddo,” Rickard winked as he put his glass down. “You know, you remind me of your dad when we just started law school.”

"Really?" Richard took it as an honor. Frankly, any resemblance to his father was a compliment to him.

“Except you’re better looking,” Rickard nodded at Cecily, who was delighted. Edward and George were silent, but Richard knew what was going on in their heads: that they were the more handsome York.

“Did you apply anywhere else?” Rickard asked for another round of soup. Milton serves him the low-fat version.

“Cambridge, of course!” his mother said jovially. “Only his father studied elsewhere.” Cecily was a die-hard Cantabrigian. On top of not wanting a long distance relationship, she nearly broke up with Richmond based on the fact alone that he deemed Harvard better than Cambridge.

“Just two, then? Did the rest of you boys even attempt at Harvard?” Rickard pointed his knife from Edward to George.

“I did. LSE, too,” George announced.

"Even if it meant not being able to work for York and Warwick?" Rickard was intrigued. Richmond would have been troubled if one of his boys went to the London School of Economics. Cecily was quiet. It didn't matter where George went; he was going to work at York and Warwick, and she would have fought to the bone to make that happen.

"Even if. Mum kept reminding me of the Harvard-Oxbridge Rule. I told her I'd be a lawyer, no matter where I went," George said. What he meant to say was one way or another, at York and Warwick or elsewhere, he'd get his name on the wall. "Anyway, I got in all three, but mother begged me to stay in England, and here we are!"

"I remember when Isaac told me he was going to apply to Yale. Hah!" Rickard signals for Milton to clear the soup bowls.

“It was during Christmas dinner, and Rick spat a piece of rabbit and ravioli into the back of my mother’s hair,” Dianne said, laughing with her guests, and ever so slightly shaking her head.

“It was stuck in there like glue,” Rickard burst out laughing.

Edward cleared his throat. "For me, Oxbridge was make-or-break. I had no desire of studying overseas, and York and Warwick would never wave its longest standing rule for me. So, if I didn't get into those two, I wouldn't study law."

“Well, thank God you got in,” Cecily said.

“And just what else would you be?” This was all news to Rickard. Edward made no mention of this when he interned at the New York office when he was in pre-law. Had this been the case, Richmond and Cecily  might  have taken it better than he did when Anne had dropped the medicine bomb.

“I’d probably start my own business… open a restaurant,” Edward ate the last of the appetizer with relish. “Food’s always been a passion of mine.”  

Clearly.

Richard imagined that a speakeasy would have been more of Edward's speed.

“Really, now? Lucky for you, multiple meals a day is ideal over here,” Dianne got a refill of champagne. “You know what, you ought to ask Anne to show you around! That girl knows the best food from Southhampton to Montauk.”

“I honestly have no idea where she puts it all,” Rickard announced.

Richard could think of a few good places, though.

 

Milton begins to serve a tray of lobsters and lamb ribs. “You’ll have to excuse my kids,” Rickard said impatiently. “They move at a glacial rate.”

"I'm here, daddy," Anne announced, suddenly standing in the terrace, inadvertently attracting everyone's attention. She looks effortlessly fantastic in the same matching cropped top and skirt as before; her body is fit, and her hair falls on her bare shoulders. She smiled nervously, but charming; she could do no wrong. Richard's finding himself ridiculous; she isn't even the prettiest girl he's ever seen, but her just being there makes him feel funny.

Anne quickly scanned the table. Elegant, as usual, and her mother wouldn't have it any other way; a medley of freshly picked magnolias and dahlias from the garden and Grandmary's china and chairs right under the linden trees her great, great grandfather had planted. But then there was Rickard York and his whole family with them, and although she loved chatting with her Aunt Cecily, she couldn't say the same for her son. There was  only one place she could avoid Richard, and it was right next to her father. At this point, she'd quelled the anger and irritation and instead felt something akin to indifference. She just… didn't want to be around him and all the discomfort it would entail. So, she planned to steer clear of the British boy for her whole life!

God help her.

“Veronica just called me from St. Barth’s,” Anne mentioned while as she kissed her father’s cheek.

“How is Ronnie liking St. Barths?” Dianne asks from the other side of the table. “Did they book Hotel Le Toiny St. Barth?”

Anne greeted Cecily with a tight bear hug. "Actually, she's staying at Le Sereno; then she's off to France."  

“Where’s she headed to in France?”

"Sorry?" Anne's surprised someone cared to ask. She had met Veronica a year after the Yorks left, so none of them have met her. She's even more surprised to learn that it's Richard who wants to know.

“Veronica. As in Veronica Crecy, your French classmate back in fourth grade, right?”

Cross that: she's stunned he remembers that detail from one of the first few letters she'd sent him.

“Oh, yeah. Of course.” She heads to kiss her mother. “Paris, Provence, Bordeaux, Burgundy, Nice; the usual. But she’s also visiting this small city in west-central France… Poitiers, I think?”

“Hey, I spent the third year of my undergrad at the University of Poitiers!” Richard’s eyes lit up.

At this point, Isaac, hangover cured by a cold shower, looking healthier and handsome, and dressed in an outfit more Hamptons appropriate, had managed to slip himself into the terrace.

“Yeah? That must have been cool!” Anne feigned interest.

And Richard wasn’t detecting it. “Oh, definitely! I was part of the Erasmus+ exchange scheme, where some 20 students go to France, Germany, the Netherlands, or Spain to study. It was one of the best decisions I made as an undergrad.”  

“I’m sure it was,” Anne eyes the empty black, wooden chairs.

"There's a seat here, Anne—" Richard cocks his head to the place beside him, but Anne hastily installs herself next to her father. "—if you'd like it," Richard says, feeling embarrassed.

“I like how the sunshine hits this part of the table,” Anne covers.

“What?” Isaac sits in between the two. “I thought you hated—” Anne stomped on her brother’s foot—which, to her horror, was a backless leather Gucci loafer. Isaac winced. “Right. My bad. That was last year.”

He looked at Anne like she was insane. He mouthed, “what the fuck?”

“Don’t worry, Cess. Their sense of urgency isn’t abysmal,” Rickard said as he sliced the lamb off the bone. The Yorks had congratulated Isaac earlier. Now, it was Anne’s moment in the sun—literally and figuratively. “Anne here graduated Magna Cum Laude from Harvard’s Department of Psychology! At least she was early for her classes!”

Anne smiled modestly as she stirred her soup.

“Well, done, dear! And what a coincidence!” Cecily exclaims. “Richard graduated Magna Cum Laude from Cambridge!”

Anne congratulates him, as if she hadn't already known that tidbit.

“Oh, but I heard you caused quite the scandal a few months ago,” Cecily said, trying to sound mysterious.  

Welp. It’s not like Anne didn’t anticipate her life choices being put into question. Anne looks up from her food and smiles, appearing dignified. “Less scandal, more disagreement, Aunt Cecily.”

“Oh, we had a legion of those, Cess, believe me,” Rickard makes it known. Who would doubt him, though?

The small talk amongst the York brothers and Dianne ceases. “Wait, what’s going on? Anyone going to fill us in?” Edward asks.

“I decided I wanted to become a doctor instead of a lawyer,” Anne stood her ground. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Anne concurrently hears “yeah,” “pretty much,” and “uh-huh,” she isn’t sure who said which.

“She says she can make a bigger difference in the world through medicine than with law,” Dianne said, although her face showed she was skeptical about that happening.   

“That’s ambitious of you. What brought that about?” George asked with a hint of his trademark condescension.  

"Well," Anne put her knife and fork down. "I guess I started having so much fun studying topics about neuroscience, biopsychology, genetics, and evolution, I took more of those than the pre-law courses daddy suggested."

“In her defense,” Isaac cut in, “accounting can be a bitch.”

“And she did it all right under our noses,” Rickard disclosed, fueling both Anne’s ego and guilt, but more so for the former. “She scored a 179 in the LSATs and got into Harvard Law. At graduation, I’ll tell you what, we were the proudest parents there. God, she was beautiful. Third in her entire class. When we were going to walk her up on stage, they announced:

 _‘Savannah Beauchamp Warwick: Bachelor of Science_ ’—that was the first red flag. I said to Dianne, ‘ _I thought she was a B.A.?_ ’ Then, they go, _‘major in Cognitive Neuroscience and Evolutionary Psychology._ ’ I thought she was in a general psychology track! We’re having our pictures taken, and I’m like,” Rickard re-enacts questioning Anne while grinning from ear to ear, front teeth exposed, and looking terrifying. “‘ _You’ve got some explaining to do._ ' She says, ‘ _dad, I got into Harvard Med, and I'm going_.’”

Richard glances over at Anne, who’s got her eyes squarely on her father, unyielding and not a bit remorseful.

“She took the MCAT without us knowing and paid for it herself,” Dianne says. “And she used her own money for her slot, too.”

Damn. And Richard thought he was ballsy for choosing Harvard over Cambridge.

“Anne, I’m not sure if I’m more shocked or impressed...” Cecily shakes her head dismissively. “At how much money you have!” she jokes, coaxing a laugh out of Anne.

“It’s not like we could have stopped her! I taught her to be a fighter,” Rickard winks at his daughter. “And she applied for a scholarship in case we said no, so there’s that.”  

“The amount of deception was quite lawyer-like, actually,” George raised his glass at her, impressed.  

“George, please,” Edward says sarcastically. “You're going to make her think we're nothing but power-hungry bottom-feeders.” Everyone laughed, except for Anne. “Was Harvard Law your fallback?”

“Nah,” Anne continues with her meal. “I just wanted to see if I could get in.”

“Don’t we all?” Edward chuckled.

“I applied for Stanford and Johns Hopkins, too.”

“She paid for those, as well,” Rickard got a second helping of lobster.

“You really had no idea at all? Not even you, Isaac?” Cecily asked.

“Not a clue!” Isaac shrugged his shoulders.

“I can’t believe you didn’t even get a whiff of it, Rick! Nothing got by you, back in the day!” Cecily teased.  

“What can I say? She’s not that little girl who’d read Law Review for fun anymore,” Rickard beamed at his little girl. She hadn't seen him look so pleased with her since those fleeting seconds before they announced her degree at graduation.  

“Or the one who secretly watched Law and Order every Saturday night with my son,” Cecily added pepper to her lobster then nodded at Richard.

“You still watch Law and Order!” George pointed his butter-coated knife at the youngest York.

"Only when I've got the time," Richard said, enjoying the lamb. "Garrett popcorn, Rice Krispie Treats, and Law and Order after dinner every Saturday was a tradition for us."

 _Us?_ Anne stayed silent. She felt her insides stir at the association—and not in a good way.

“You still follow Benson, Anne?” Richard asked in between bites of couscous.

Anne shrugged. With Isaac in between them, it was sort of difficult to talk. That's why he was there in the first place. She turned to look at Richard straight in the eyes, cold and intensely, making him somewhat feel like she didn't want to have this conversation—but only for a moment. Then she smiled affably. “I’ve got new traditions now.”

Richard, dubious, yet determined to learn more, asks: “can’t be traditions if they’re new, can they?”

Anne kept forcing a big smile faker than Kim Cattrall whenever she’s next to Sarah Jessica Parker. “Work in progress.”  

“Such as?”

Anne didn't have anything to say. She figured she'd let him yap on, then go, "ah, that's nice" and then turn her attention to Edward or someone. "You first," she bobbed her head.   

"Hmm," Richard pondered on it. "Well, walking mum's spaniel Bailey in the afternoon and going to the gym at night has become a regular thing ever since I got back from Cambridge. Oh, and listening to her complain about the weather every morning," Richard teased his mother from across the table. "If this were last summer and the ones before, I'd add afternoon barbecues and drinking, punting, All Points East Festival, and Wimbledon before internship."

Anne's both unimpressed and itching to end this talk. She's seen bread more interesting than Richard York. "How enthralling," she focused on her virtually untouched plate, brimming with food. She hoped Richard got the hint.

He did, but he didn’t get why.

She didn’t care.

 

“Any specialization in mind, Anne?” Cecily wondered.

“Surgery,” Anne took a big bite of lobster.

“How many years will that take?”

“4 years of med school and 4 or 8 more of residency…”

"So we're looking at possibly 12? Jesus," George was appalled. 12 years was too long. By then, he'd be a senior partner, at least.  

“Yeah, but I’m hoping that time will be consistent and fly by when you’re having fun,” Anne said optimistically.

“You like studying?” George asked, although he practically scoffed at her. Ah, to be young and inordinately idealistic.

“Sure I do! If I like the topic.” She helped herself to more lamb. “I couldn’t see that happening for me in law school.”

“Nothing’s harder than doing something you hate,” Isaac concurred. Anne loved her brother; he always, always had her back, even when she called in the morning and he was still an economics undergrad and too drunk to comprehend what she was saying.

“I absolutely agree,” Edward says. “That’s why medicine was never an option for me; I already hated studying science at Eton, I was not going to do that for the rest of my life.”

“That’s not to say law’s easier than med. What do you say to that, Richard?” Rickard states from across the table, curious at the wits the boy has to offer.  

Richard knows this is a test and is keen to impress the man he's looked up all his life. "Well," he cleared his throat. "They're two different fields altogether. It's like comparing apples and oranges. But the JD program's just three years long, and med school would be more physically demanding down the line. Both need a lot of reading and memorization, perhaps more of the latter in med. But I'd wager that an average person might perform better at med than law school, in the context of top-tier universities."

Hearing this, Anne is flabbergasted. “What?”

Now's he's got her attention. "Think about it. Anatomy, physiology; it's all straightforward, so all you need is rote learning, unlike at law school, where readings are more nuanced. Undergrad courses will have significant leverage over the first two years for med; the same can't be said for law."

Anne can’t believe what she’s hearing. What did he know about studying science? The hardest he got is probably a gen ed course, which is practically high school. “You forgot about biochemistry.”

“Alright, that’s going to need more smarts to master, but come on,” Richard shrugged, looking at the seasoned attorneys around him. He knew they were on his side.

"What do you mean, ‘come on?'" Anne copied how Richard raised his shoulders and expressed his doubt in a British accent which sounded intentionally terrible.

Not so ice cool now, is she? Textbook Anne; still a slave to her emotions. No matter. He was chill and this was nothing compared to the debates he had during undergrad. “I mean, between contract law and histology, I think we know which is harder to hack.”

“Duh!” Anne exclaimed.

"Histology," "contract law," they declared at the same time; Anne, a tad louder than him.  

Anne’s regained composure. “Everyone knows contract law is one of the easiest legal subjects.”  

“And everybody knows your lectures are spoon fed to you.”

Anne shifts. This is starting to feel a little personal. She knew it, Isaac knew it, everybody knew it and passed the popcorn around.

She couldn't believe this guy, nor could she read him. What's in it for him? It's a fact that contract law is elementary compared to the likes of constitution or equity!

He wanted below the belt? She’d give him below the fucking belt.

“As opposed to the imminent cold calls of the prehistoric and famously trauma-inducing Socratic Method?”

Richard’s surprised. Frankly, all of them are. Hell, she might as well have denounced Socrates himself. Their disagreement had become a mock trial of some sort; who cares if they were family, or that he was barely a law student? Partners of York and Warwick—a firm that only hired the top 1% in all of New York and London associates—were watching and there were no points for second place.

Let the games begin.

“The Socratic Method is a pillar of legal education. It’s a rite of passage for every law student! You don’t get to the truth by intuition or imagination, but following the Socratic Method! By answering all questions and questioning all answers! My father called it the highest form of pedagogy!”

Richard was so passionate. Was he fucking glowing? And, what, should Anne regard Richmond York as a legal god now? (Actually, she should).

Not going down without a fight, Anne responds, “really? I call it backing someone against the wall. I’m all for class participation, but professors ambush and trap students with endless questions instead of just telling them outright what they need to know. And what happens when they don’t know the answer? They get shamed, humiliated, and ridiculed for it!”  

“Well, if they can’t find ways to get over the wall, to break the damn thing down, or at the very least, grow a spine, turn around, and fight, then perhaps they have no business in law school.”

George couldn’t not whisper “damn” to Edward. Isaac pretends like he has to take a call and strides to the side, wanting to save both his eardrums and himself from getting caught in the crossfire.

Anne's at a loss for words. She decided Richard York was not only cocky, but also inhumane. "So that's it? Really? Can't the system adjust for its students? You're alright with an archaic, cruel, and psychologically abusive technique? That's how you want to learn?"

Richard feels a pang in his gut. She wasn't lying about its propensity for abuse, but the effectiveness of the Socratic method was undisputed. "I'll admit that the Socratic method could be used more efficiently or humanistic, if it please you—which I'm sure is the case nowadays, compared to the times of our fathers. But there is a reason why Harvard and top-tier law schools still use it."

Anne’s restrained herself, because she found a way to tip the scale. “I suppose dialogue and hypothetical scenarios would be the best way to teach theoretical knowledge,” she stressed.

Richard narrows his eyes. He’s dubious and senses some condescension. “Explain.”

“Theory is really all law school teaches. Compared to the practical skills and real-world applications from medicine, law is… cute.”

Richard laughed. “You are aware that you’re in a room full of lawyers? And that what you are now is because of the legal profession?”

“Yes,” Anne said firmly. “What I’m not sure about is why you’re narrating my personal history for me.”  

"We've got an internship to cover practical skills."

Anne scoffed. “Yeah, like that’s anything close to how we put our skin in the game in rotations and clerkship.”

"It's true that law school by design leans on the theoretical, but are you saying that regarding application, the work of a medical doctor, like William Osler, is greater than that of a juris doctor, such as Charles Hamilton Hudson?" Richard knew he was going on a limb on this one, but this was definitely what she was implying.  

There isn’t a hint of hesitation or fear in Anne’s face. “Let the record show,” she moves closer to Richard. He watches her intently. What’s she doing? And why is Richard half allured by whatever it is? The hottest fires were blue, and her electric blue eyes set him ablaze. Richard had never seen a more intimidating gaze. A small smile with a glint of mischief slipped onto her face, making the hair at the back of his neck stand and giving him goosebumps—and not the ones you get from the cold. She’s so close, only Richard to could hear what she utters: “Osler blows Hudson out of the water.”

Screw beautiful—this chick is mental.

“That is preposterous.”

“No way,” Anne eases into Isaac's seat. “Every person will need medical services at one point in their lives, but legal services? Doubtful.”

“And yet every person is subject to the law,” Richard bends closer to her. “Including you.”

_There. I’ve got her by the balls._

_Or ovary. Whatever’s the anatomical equivalent._

“Ah, but in medicine,” Anne swayed her index finger, “we study and care for the brain, the organ required to create, study, enforce, and follow the law. Your dorsolateral prefrontal cortex, for instance, is crucial to blame and punishment decisions. In conclusion: my field takes precedence over yours.”

Richard studies her face; she’s got a smug look that Richard wants to wipe off. “It appears we’re at an impasse.”

“Looks like it.” Anne gazes at him with glacier cold eyes. “Pity. And I thought you were the incoming Harvard Law genius. Why aren’t I impressed?”

God damn it. How far below the belt is this woman willing to hit? Did she always have to have the last word?

His eyes narrow, taking her in. “This entire debate is littered with fallacies.”

“Name them,” she challenged him.

“We’d never get off this table if I did.” Yup, there were that many.  

“Case in point!”

Richard doesn’t flinch. "This is all for sport, you know? A game?"

"Oh, I do," the space between them dwindles. "And this is just losing."  By now, Anne and Richard were in such a narrow range of one another, their foreheads and noses are mere inches away and they could feel the rhythm of the other's breathing, but clearly, this proximity bothered neither of them. Isaac had one mind to tear them apart and make sure it stays that way, or lock them in the same room to get it over with. He’d never seen his sister like this; Anne was headstrong and unyielding with an incredible sense of self, but she was seldom on the offensive. She hardly considered differences in opinion as battles worth fighting for.

Just when Richard was about to oblige, Dianne claps her hands, “okay! I think this little pow-wow has gone on long enough!”

"You're right, mom," Anne glances at her mother and back at Richard. Still trying to be diplomatic, Anne proposes, "I move that this parley be terminated immediately. All those in favor, please say ‘aye.'"

The party lets out a resounding ‘aye.’  

“The ayes have it. Good day, Richard York.”  

“Likewise, Anne Warwick.”

And with that, Anne excuses herself from the table, leaving everyone bewildered and Richard seething internally. Dianne's massaging her temples as she apologizes to Richard for her daughter. "I don't know what came over her." Rickard follows suit, although it appears the spectacle thoroughly entertained him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last part of the argument was inspired by Amy and Sheldon's fight in TBTT's The Zazzy Substitution, and a line from Sherlock's A Scandal in Belgravia!
> 
> Won't be updating for maybe the next 3 months LOL thanks for reading and the kudos! Feel free to leave comments!


	5. Libra x Gemini

Anne waltzed out of the terrace triumphant—the winner against Richard York in a debate about the age-old question as to which is better: medicine or law? The more he opened his mouth, the angrier she got. With each sneer, the more fuel was added to her wrath. She can’t measure how long she grit her teeth in an effort to stay silent and extinguish the burning animosity coursing through her veins.  
He’s just as bad as the rest of them, Anne thought. She could just picture what kind of attorney he was going to be: ruthless, zero morality, all-around snake, and general a$$hole.  
A perfect fit for York and Warwick.  
She swung her large mahogany door open, startling Atlas from his slumber. She then crashed into her bed facedown, head buried in her arms.  
“Fuck,” she said into the Frette comforter.  
And yet winning wasn’t all it was cut out to be. Victory shouldn’t equal completely humiliating the enemy, and so Anne left the group first. Since this was her territory, she should have been the one to stay, but she wanted Richard to have some dignity left. But the even bigger reason was that although she had no expectations, but quietly hoped that out of all the people there, Richard would have been open-minded enough to understand or at least respect her decision to go after what inspires her.  
Instead, he put her under fire, and for what? To look good for the partners? Bullshit.  
Thank God she isn’t going to Harvard Law. She already had to see his face everyday for the next two weeks, she was not going to do that for three years.  
Atlas was whimpering for his human, but to no avail. A minute or so goes by for Anne. She listened to the birds chirping outside and the ticking of her pastel pink vintage twin bell analog clock as she relaxed, taking deep, slow, Darth Vader-like breaths. Once ready, flipped herself over and stared at the bare white ceiling which used to be decorated so as to replicate the solar system. Until the Great Renovation of 2010, she used to fall asleep under a solar system ceiling light and glow-in-the-dark constellations, shooting stars, and meteors. She and Richard used to study the stars in her bedroom when they couldn’t see any outside.

_“You were born on June 11, right, Anne?” a 5-year-old Richard asked a newly 6-year-old Anne, both wrapped in warm blankets atop Anne’s bed._   
_“Yup. Why?”_   
_Using his father’s laser pen, Richard traced two close, bright stars from the constellation Orion. "Those two are called Castor and Pollux. They're the heads of the twin demigods Castor and Pollux.” He tracked further the fainter stars that outline the two bodies. “This constellation is called Gemini.”_   
_“Hey! That’s my zodiac sign!”_   
_“That’s why I traced it for you, doofus!”_   
_Richard was a textbook bibliophile, but he was the kind who liked to hide that fact, except when he was with Anne, who was entertained by his ideas and would gladly share her own._

_“Alright, Mr. Encyclopdia. Where’s yours?”_  
 _“I was born on October 2, so I’m a Libra, which is Latin for weighing scales. Let’s see…” Richard outlines a relatively faint constellation, showing the stars that make the upper part of the scale which links the two balances._  
 _“Richard, it looks like a spaceship, not weighing scales.”_  
 _“Are you kidding me?? Alpha and Beta Librae are the balance beam, Gamma and Sigma are the weighing pans!!!”_  
 _“Seriously!!! Look! The triangle is the spaceship’s body, and below it are its two legs!”_  
 _“Huh. Now that you mention it…”_  
 _“See!!!”_  
 _“Great!” Richard threw his hands into the air. “Now every time I see Libra, I’ll see a spaceship!”_  
 _Anne giggled. “_ Everytime _I see Libra, I’ll think of you.” She smiled earnestly, causing Richard to do the same._  
 _“I thought of you when I read about Gemini in the book my dad got me,” Richard raised his head to face the ceiling coated by heavenly bodies. “And I’ll always think of you when I look up at the night sky.”_

Her door creeps open, bringing Anne back to earth. “Guess it’s still a bad time…”  
It’s Isaac. He had thought to give his sister time to cool down or else be caught in the storm, but perhaps his visit was premature.  
“Yo,” Anne mumbled, raising her palm up.  
“Hey,” Isaac replied, giving the sniffling corgi a dog treat and the attention it wanted. Anne then felt the bed sink enough to know that he’s laid down adjacent to her. They say nothing, staring at the once dark ceiling.  
“Aren’t you supposed to be accepting the award for longest conversation on a mobile phone?” she whispered.  
“I lost to Trump,” Isaac answers.  
“Damn those nightcaps with Putin.”  
Isaac laughed. A few seconds go by. “When did you get rid of all the stickers here?”  
Anne sighs. “Does it matter? They’re gone.”  
“Profound. Your room used to be way cooler than mine.”  
“It still is.”  
“Speaking of which, good job keeping your cool back there.”  
“Did I?”  
Isaac shrugged. “You did your best. Dad was impressed.”  
“Oh? You think I still have my inheritance?” Anne joked.  
“Oh, yeah. He said you’d have made an excellent lawyer, considering you’d argue any opinion.”  
Anne laughed. The chances of that happening were pitiful.  
Isaac turned to face his sister, who kept her eyes were glued onto the grand ceiling molding. “Why’d you let him get to you?”  
“I hate him.”  
Isaac scoffed. “No, you don’t. You had those come-hither eyes that reeled him in and made his face burn! Everyone saw it. Then you inched closer and closer, and I swear…” Isaac had to get away from whatever was going on between his little sister and the baby York. It was sort of cute to watch grown-up Anne and pretend he didn’t know she was flirting with grown-up Richard. But then again, it kind of wasn’t, especially when Anne was supposed to be Lancaster’s girl.  
“All part of the game, Isaac.”  
“So you were just toying with the poor boy?”  
“Had to soften the blow somehow. And what better way than with my raw sexuality!” Anne announced sarcastically. “Hook, line, and sinker. Dumbass.”  
“Anne…”  
“He’s judgmental, sanctimonious, straight-up obnoxious, and I hate him,” Anne declared.  
“You’ve barely spoken to the guy,” Isaac sounded sympathetic.  
Anne glared at her brother, all the characteristic warmth and laughter drained from her eyes. “Whose fault is that?” Anne got up and strut across the room, into her elegant 150 square-foot walk-in closet.

“Anne,” Isaac calls, before he realizes his sister isn’t coming out for reasons other than the closet containing everything a girl could possibly want. He heads over to find her moving through her wall of color-coded workout tops, shorts, leggings, and zip-ups, suspended from glass hangers. “Anne, it’s been years. Don’t you think it’s time to let it go?”

“Let go of what?” Anne proceeded to her stacks of sports bras, arranged in drawers more immaculately than even Victoria’s Secret.

“Anne. You know what I’m talking about,” Isaac installed himself on the upholstered bench.  
“If you’re talking about what I think you’re talking about, I have thoroughly put that behind me,” she said, selecting a white Nike sports bra.  
“Your tone and aura suggest otherwise.”  
“Trust me, Isaac; I just can’t stand the guy,” Anne grabbed a pair of white and gray Alo Yoga ribbed leggings. “That’s all.”  
“I don’t know… he isn’t as bad as you think,” Isaac held his palm out. “You might grow to like him if you gave him a chance.”  
“Nah,” Anne carved her purple yoga mat out of retirement from her exercise equipment closet. “I plan on avoiding him for the rest of my life.”  
“And how would that go?” Isaac ragged. “Our families are inextricably tied by the firm.”  
“Which I will have nothing to do with,” Anne held her index finger up before going into the mirrored closet to change.  
“You sound like a petty child, you know that?” Isaac jumped up and stepped into the vicinity of the large white French door, leading to a balcony overlooking the tennis court. “God, I can’t wait for that guy to leave so you could go back to normal.”  
“You and me both, brother,” she yelled from inside.  
“Anyway, they won’t be for long,” Isaac stepped out and lit a Treasurer Luxury Black cigarette. “Can you please be civil until then?”  
Anne slides open the closet door. “If it brings balance to the Force.”  
“Good.” Isaac nods and takes about two puffs before Anne walks over and stamps out the cigarette on the white marble bannister.  
“These will kill you,” Anne reprimands.  
“Can’t catch a break, even up here,” Isaac shrugs as Anne walks her brother out. Halfway out the door, Isaac turns. “Oh, and Anne? Don’t wear that downstairs. A York boy might implode and I really don’t wanna clean up that mess.”  
Anne shoves her brother out the door, “see you!”  
When the door was shut, Anne exhaled intensely. She’s lost count of how many times she’d lied to Isaac, and it hasn’t even been 24 hours into the weekend. She didn’t mean to dabble with Richard, but somehow, in the heat of the argument, she couldn’t hold out. His eyes were fixed on hers, and shameful as it is to admit, Anne was getting lost in figuring out hue they were—a mix of green and brown with some blue crawling at the edges? How he looked at her gave nothing away, but there were moments, although incisive, when his pupils clearly dilated and flared with anger, irritation, and—dare she say it?—longing. At the final face-off, when she leaned forward to bring her mouth close to his left ear. Atop his thigh, under the table so no other souls could know, she slowly curled the fingers of her left hand around his right wrist. She felt his pulse race, and that’s when she knew she’d won more than their silly argument.  
Damn, that was fun, even though she didn’t want it to be.  
Anne whirled around to see Atlas standing at her feet, looking less than pleased at his human, as if he knows what she’s done.  
“Don’t look at me like that…” she steps aside from the dog and attempts to lay out her yoga mat in front of the window, before Atlas sits on it, still annoyed.  
“Okay, boy. Off. I need this to exercise,” Anne tried to transfer the corgi. “Atlas, get off…” but the dog growls back at her.  
“Alright, fine!” Anne positions herself on the floor next to Atlas. Facing the sun, she closes her eyes and links her hands together at her heart, deepening her breathing. “Bark if you wanna do some doga,” she says, eyes still shut.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
“Women, huh?” Edward says as he and his brothers approach the mansion. “Can’t live with them, can’t successfully refute their arguments.”  
“Amen to that,” Richard puffs out.  
“Still… she kind of wiped the floor with your ass,” George jeered.  
“Thanks, mate. Appreciate it.”  
“A bit crass, George! Richard is no dog. Although I suppose Anne could do worse things to your bottom…”  
“Don’t even bloody go there, Edward,” Richard warned.  
“I’m just saying! At the rate you two were going, the world could have wasted away and you wouldn’t have noticed. Too busy ogling her and her dazzling wits,” Edward teased.  
“Bollocks. Absolute bollocks,” Richard says, unfazed by his brothers’ usual jokes.  
“Well, her wits, maybe not, but tits—”  
“Mate, it was like fighting was foreplay for you two,” George added.  
“I swear, he was this close to snogging her,” Edward proceeds to press his face against George, making the latter swat him away. “Jesus! We get it, Edward!”  
“Has the American heat somehow fried your brains and made you mental? With respect, the girl is without a doubt the most judgmental, sanctimonious, obnoxious creature that has ever walked the planet,” Richard says a little louder than he meant to.  
“You know she’s likely thinking the same about you,” Edward states.  
“You weren’t a picnic either. You did say that any old bloke could excel at medicine,” George mentions.  
“You both know it’s true,” Richard says, mellowing his tone.  
“Yes, but you didn’t have to rub it in her face,” George chides.  
“It didn’t rub it in her face. I merely opened her eyes to the truth.”  
“How’d that work out with someone whose bible is Gray’s Anatomy?  
“In any case, while we’re in Warwick territory, might I suggest white flags be hoisted for a change?” Edward advised. Not far from them is Isaac, coming from his room across the hall. “Isaac! How’s your sister?”  
“She still kind of stings.”  
“She just needs to cool off. I’d give it a day,” Richard brushes off Isaac’s statement.  
“What’s the real score though?” George asks.  
“Let’s just say the words “loathe,” “hate,” and “hotter than the sun” have been used in the same sentence,” Isaac says with half a grin: half amused, half embarrassed.  
“Okay, maybe two days,” Richard looks at his brothers for affirmation.  
Just then, a loud shatter is heard from the West Wing—it could only have come from Anne’s room, causing the men to look nervous.  
“Did you see the way she looked at me earlier?”  
“Mate, she wouldn’t even look at you,” George says.  
“And when she did… those eyes were so cold, you might as well have been in fucking Siberia,” Edward adds.  
“Not the most comforting, are they?” Isaac asks.  
“No. No, they’re not,” Richard shakes his head, to which Edward and George shrug.  
“Anyway, why don’t you just apologize?” Isaac suggests.  
“Me? She’s the one who had her fangs out the whole time.”  
“You weren’t exactly a picnic yourself,” Isaac scoffs.  
“Right?” George turns to Isaac.  
“A ‘sorry’ could go a long way with my sister,” Isaac smiles. “As long as you mean it.”  
“I think we’re gonna have a problem in that department,” Edward says; Richard doesn’t refute. As much as he hated to admit it, he did kind of enjoy arguing with her. There was a fire in her eyes he couldn't get out his mind. Who knew all that was packed in a tiny body? And when she inched closer to him... the things he would have done if their bloody families weren't around.  
God, even he knew he sounded creepy right now. But why was she so mad at him? George was right; Anne was obviously bothered by him from the start. But why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol writing is sooooo time consuming will probs never finish this lol bye


End file.
